


An Artist in His Own Mind

by mggislife2789 (dontshootmespence)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Artists, Attempted Murder, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontshootmespence/pseuds/mggislife2789
Summary: Every artist is a genius in his own mind.Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or their original stories. This is only for fun. It's where my brain goes after the credits roll. No copyright intended. Better safe than sorry. ;)
Kudos: 6





	An Artist in His Own Mind

“Painting is self-discovery. Every good artist paints what he is.” – Jackson Pollock

He needed silence to work.

Finally, the pleas that rang through the air subsided, leaving him with peace and quiet to think. Moving quickly was essential - before the bodies became too stiff to work with. They were the perfect specimens for his first piece.

After propping her up onto the chair with her palms upward, he wiped the blood off her neck: a clean canvas. White cloth draped around her neck and body, though it took longer than he expected to get the material to sit just right. Thankfully, he at least partly situated the boy into the position he needed. If he hadn’t there would’ve been much more damage getting him situated into the woman’s arms. It left him more time to clean the boy off and ensure a perfect finished work of art.

They lived alone and had little contact with others in the neighborhood. No one would come looking for a while. Due to the boy’s slightly contorted position it took a while to get his clothes off, but once they’d been removed, he draped the excess cloth hanging from the woman’s body over his lap.

Stepping back, he admired his work. Like any good artist, he could see areas he’d like to improve, but unfortunately he didn’t have all the time in the world. There was just one final touch. He grabbed a screwdriver from the woman’s basement and pried open the can of paint – SW 7588, Show Stopper. With every jostle of the screwdriver against the lid of the paint can, he grew more and more angry, impatience boiling inside him, the desire to perfect his piece growing exponentially.

Stirring the paint ensured it was smooth and ready for the canvas. The crimson stared back at him. Carefully, he lifted the can above his work, steadily pouring the medium out until it was gone.

With a satisfied sigh, he stepped back and pulled out the Polaroid, capturing his first completed work.

—

Morgan walked into the bullpen with sand still scratching at the corners of his eyes. Every heartbeat said coffee. Apparently, Spencer already beat him there. “Late night, kid?” He laughed. He was pouring so much sugar into his coffee, he would swear a little mountain peak was going to breakthrough the top of the steaming liquid.

Grumbling, Spencer nodded. “So late.”

“Alright, Pretty Boy.”

Spencer smirked, glancing toward Morgan quickly before looking away. God, he wanted to go home.

“Woah, woah,” he said, stepping in front of the nearly comatose doctor. “That kinda late night?”

Spencer began walking back toward his desk, whispering, “I’ll never tell.”

“You haven’t dated anyone since Y/N,” Morgan stated, catching up to his evasive friend. “I always thought it was a mistake breaking up with her. You back together?”

“I’ll never tell,” he repeated on a laugh.

Before they could return to their desks and Morgan could pester Spencer just a little bit more, Hotch stepped out of his office and began marching toward the round table room. “Guys, we’ve got a case.”

“It didn’t come through me?” JJ mentioned.

Hotch shook his head. “No, it came directly to me. A friend from New York got out of the city and began working in Cazenovia upstate. He’s got a weird one.”

“How weird?” Rossi asked.

“Even we’ve never seen anything like it.”

Emily sighed heavily. “When does it end?”

It doesn’t, she thought.

—

“Where’s Garcia?” Hotch asked.

Emily motioned toward the elevator. “She’s just on her way up. I’ll catch her up once we’re all briefed.”

Nodding, Hotch clicked the button on the remote. “In Cazenovia, there have been three people murdered via a single stab wound to the neck.”

“And they’re connected?” Morgan queried. “How do we know?”

When Hotch clicked the remote, their mouths collectively dropped, eyes alight with a confusion that was hard to come by given their line of work.

“What the hell?” Emily leaned forward in her chair trying to make some sense of the pictures in front of them. “They’ve been posed.”

“And have paint splattered on them.”

“Even though the victims aren’t connected in any way that the local PD can find, they were all killed with a knife. The unique signature is why we were called in.” Hotch passed copies of the files out to each member of the team. “With a signature unique as this and these kills only a week apart, there’s no doubt this unsub is going to strike again soon. We’ll go over victimology on the plane. Wheels up in 30.”

—

Despite the sun shining, the jet always felt solemn, like it knew it was a harbinger of bad things to come. “Alright, so what do we know about the victims?” Hotch asked Garcia, her bright and shining face the only light they’d see for at least the next few days.

“The first victims were a mother and son, Linda and Brian Tucker, 40 and 15 years old, found a week ago like this.” She brought up the pictures from the crime scene and flinched. No matter how many crime scenes she saw, she’d never get used to it. “The second victim, found yesterday, was 33-year old Matthew Feldman.”

He was posed in a chair and redressed in a green pea coat and long black pants that were slightly too baggy for his slight frame. His face was bandaged, a white covering wrapped around his ears and tied on the top of his head. And he was doused in orange paint. Garcia’s fingers glided across the keyboard like a seagull over the waves. “I’m checking everything they could’ve possibly had in common. Churches, schools, work places, dry cleaners, nothing. These three aren’t connected. At least as far as I can see.”

“Alright, let’s move away from victimology for the time being,” Hotch said. “What do the crime scene photos tell us about the killer?”

Emily noted the cleanliness of the bodies apart from the paint. “With stab wounds to the neck, they should be drenched in blood, but they aren’t. The area around them is, but they aren’t, like they were wiped off.”

“So they’re clean,” Rossi replied, “But the paint is messy. It could’ve been painted on for more control, but it seems like it was poured.”

Spencer stared at the screen, eyes scanning over the poses on display. “The bodies are intricately posed and cleaned. They’re what matter to him. The bodies are the compulsion, the paint is the signature.”

“What are you thinking, Reid?” Morgan asked.

“They’re works of art,” he said. “See the mother and son? She’s sitting with the boy in her lap, her hands palm up. What does that remind you of?”

An art lover himself, Rossi silently chastised himself for not realizing what the crime scene resembled sooner. “The Pieta. The sculpture of Mary cradling Jesus after his crucifixion…and the man…it’s Van Gogh’s self-portrait after returning from the hospital after having cut off his ear.”

“So this guy thinks himself an artist and is picking victims at random,” Morgan grumbled. “Lovely. We need to get to Cazenovia yesterday.”

—

After checking in with Sheriff Meyer, who’d called Hotch in first place, Spencer and Rossi headed to the latest crime scene, leaving JJ, Hotch, Emily and Morgan to liaise with the authorities and try and nail down a profile. “Alright, an artist like this has to be connected to the world in some way,” Morgan insisted. “Maybe he’s an art student, a local artist, something.”

Emily shook her head. “It’s gotta be more than that. If he was successful in any way, wouldn’t the ‘art’ in question be completely perfect? Pristine? The paint is messy. Why?”

“Maybe a rejected artist then,” he replied. “Someone who got denied viewership in a gallery or turned away from a prestigious art school. Color could be part of why he was turned down, so when it comes to the paint he’s disorganized.”

Before anyone could alert Garcia, the sheriff walked in, forlorn. “We’ve got another one.”

—

“What’s this one supposed to be?” Emily asked.

Spencer crouched near the man’s body, his torso wrapped in a similar pea coat to the last victim and a captain’s hat, yellowed with age – all topped with yellow paint. “Portrait of Dr. Gachet. Another Van Gogh piece. It seems a pattern is forming. Both pieces are very melancholic. Could be a reflection of our unsub.”

Morgan reached his gloved hand into the man’s pocket. “46 year old Andrew Warner. Lemme call Garcia.”

“You’ve reached the all-knowing and all-seeing Oracle of Quantico, how may I assist thee?”

“What can you give me on an Andrew Warner?”

“Andrew Warner, 1109 Nighthawk Lane, Syracuse, NY. He’s the operator of a local art gallery in Auburn called Light’s Meaning…sounds a little pretentious if you ask me.”

“Thanks, baby girl,” Morgan said softly. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“I’m waiting on it, sugar.” 

“Seems like our unsub is starting to get a little closer to his true targets. How much you wanna bet our guy was rejected by Andrew Warner?”

“Less than a day in between kills,” Emily interjected. “He’s devolving fast. We need to give the profile.”

—

As the officers piled into the station’s bullpen, the team gathered before them. JJ took a step forward and asked for everyone’s attention. “Listen closely. This unsub is devolving fast and this profile is going to be the best way to catch him.”

“Alright, we’re looking for a white male between the ages of 20 and 30 whose been rejected from art school or a showing at a gallery,” Emily projected toward the murmuring crowd. No matter how many times they gave a profile to an innumerable amount of officers and detectives, there were always a few skeptics.

Leaning against the back wall, Spencer spoke. “He’s an injustice collector of sorts and feels that he’s been wronged. For right now, his victims are random, but they’re surrogates for the people who rejected him.”

“He’s devolving fast,” Hotch said. “Even though the crime scenes are still organized, the bodies are still being cleaned and the paint is still his signature, he’s killing more quickly with less and less time between kills.”

Morgan insisted. “That’s why we need all of you involved in the search for our unsub. The quicker we can pin down who he is, where he was rejected from and who wronged him, the more people we’ll be able to save. We need to get ahead of this guy.”

“And one more thing,” Emily added. “Given the likelihood that this is a student who’s been rejected, and the time of year, October. It’s likely the unsub was rejected months ago and there’s a secondary stressor that kick-started the killing spree. However, we can’t rule out that this is someone rejected from a gallery. Just something to keep in mind.”

—

He could feel the breeze brush by him as he hurriedly ran downstairs, barreling through anything that might be in his way. The FBI was in town and he still had work to do, but he’d have to move his schedule forward.

On the table sat a newspaper clipping: “Administrator Gavin P. Hall promoted to President at Tisch.”

—

Garcia had this innate ability to shine in the face of darkness. Something the rest of the team envied her for. She slid across the floor of her office, the wheels of her chair carrying her gracefully though she somehow managed to bump into her computer desk. “Okay, my pretties, I have been doing a lot of digging and I mean a lot. My hands are dirty and it’s caked under my fingernails kind of dirty. Now, I know the locals have been going door to door searching for anyone that fits the profile and has been rejected from a gallery, so I decided to look into people in the greater New York area that have been rejected from art school and boy do I have a list for you.”

“Send it over, baby girl.”

She feigned a gasp. “Mon ami, you don’t think that happened 30 seconds ago?”

“Garcia, can you narrow this list down?” Spencer asked. “We think there’s another more recent stressor that sparked the killing spree.”

“I’m gonna need something specific to narrow it down by,” she said sadly. “I mean I am an all powerful super genius hacker chick, but I can’t pull answers out of thin air.”

Rossi tapped his fingers against the desk. “Okay, okay, the third and fourth victims were both depicted like Van Gogh’s works, right? Why wasn’t the first one? The mother and son?”

“Okay, so the mother and son has to mean something,” Hotch admitted.

Spencer pushed back from the table. “With an unsub so purposeful, the bodies, the way they’re cleaned and positioned, the paints. It all means something, so a mother and a son. Garcia, have any of the suspects lost their mother recently.”

With a few quick swipes of the keys, Garcia had a list of five names. “Only one of them has lost their mother in the last week and a half though?” She said. “Trenton Price, and his address is now on your phones. Also, out of the five finalists, he’s the only one to be rejected from Tisch – one of the premiere art schools in the country.”

They all pushed back from the table, intent clear. “Alright, Reid, you, me and Emily will head to Price’s address. Rossi, you, Morgan and JJ head to Tisch, interview anyone that was involved in Price’s rejection.”

—

It would take hours for Spencer, Emily and Hotch to catch up with them, but at least they could give them a heads up. “Morgan, it’s Reid. We went to the address and he wasn’t there, but his cellphone went on and Garcia triangulated the call-“

“Lemme guess, he’s at Tisch.”

“Yup. Be careful.”

“Thanks for the heads up, kid.”

Rossi stepped on the gas, sirens blaring. “We’ll be there in five.”

“You sure about that?” JJ grimaced, hand grasping the handle above the window like her life depended on it. “We’re in the middle of New York City.”

“And I grew up on Long Island, I got this.”

In less than five minutes, Rossi screeched the car to a halt and they ran in, guns at the ready. Students ran down the hallways and down the stairs toward any exit they could find. “Where? Where are they?” JJ yelled.

“In the president’s office! Second floor!” She screamed, the clacking of her heels dissipating within the seconds.

They ran up the stairs, hearts racing while students ran passed, whispers of the ensuing sanity floating by their ears. “Trenton Price,” Morgan screamed, “Put your weapon down!”

“No! They have to pay! I’ve worked all my life for this and they just shut me down! Like the pretentious bastards they are!”

In his grasp, Gavin Hall squirmed but the knife inched closer and closer to his throat. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

Rossi stepped in front of Morgan and JJ, taking the lead though none of them had vests on. They never expected him to be so desperate so soon. “Trenton, don’t do anything you’re gonna regret,” he pleaded. “If you kill Hall here, you’ll take away his ability to make things right. Give you the opportunities you deserve.”

JJ snaked around the back of Rossi and trained her gun on Price, hoping for a chance to get a shot off.

“Yea, right! What d’you think I’m stupid?”

Nodding slightly, Rossi encouraged the terrified Hall to ‘make amends.’ Rossi prompted him. “Your mother was your biggest fan, wasn’t she? Encouraged your artistic abilities?”

“Yes, she always knew I’d be an artist, and now I am,” he breathed, a tear falling down the side of his cheek. “But then they rejected me. Told me I was an amateur! That my choice of medium was basic and pedantic. Do you know how many skilled artists specialized in charcoal? Robert Longo, William Kentridge, Dan Pyle, Joel Daniel Phillips! And these assholes tell me I’m arcane and talentless?”

“You’re not,” Hall said, putting together the pieces of Price’s mental state. “I was wrong about you. About your work.

“Liar!” He lifted his arm above his head. A crack resounded throughout the room and he fell to the floor, groaning.

JJ ran up to him and kicked the knife away, holstering her gun before turning him over and cuffing him. “You okay?” She asked Hall.

“Y-yes,” he breathed. “I’m okay. I-“

“You got this?” Morgan asked.

She nodded. “Yea, I’m good, get him to the medic.”

Price screamed at the top of his lungs through the hallways, telling anyone and everyone that he was going to be the next great artist. “Please,” JJ replied. “You’re throwing a temper tantrum because you didn’t get what you wanted.”

—

“So, kid,” Morgan said with a smile. “You gotta tell me about the other night. What happened with Y/N?” 

Emily’s eyes lit up and she practically jumped into the seat next to him. “Wait, you two back together?”

He shook his head but he wasn’t convincing in the slightest. “As soon as we get back, I am going home and going to bed.”

“With Y/N?”

“I’m not telling,” he smirked.


End file.
